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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29892366">He Sees You When You're Sleeping</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Marvel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Crack Treated Seriously, Crime Santa, Dirty Talk, Dreams and Nightmares, Horror, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 17:33:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,189</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29892366</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt gets a visitor who seems to know him well.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Matt Murdock &amp; Original Male Character(s), Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous Avocados</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>He Sees You When You're Sleeping</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>  </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <em> It was Christmas Eve and all through his home,  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Was silence and peace —  for Matt was alone. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> A night of patrol and he was ready for bed. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He longed for the chance to rest his head. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But there was something a-lurking, there in the gloom </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Waiting in Matthew’s own bedroom. </em>
</p><hr/><p>“Ugh,” Matt groaned, as he closed the door behind him. His whole body ached. His shoulders were tight, his legs were stiff. His flank throbbed with pain. A guy had got a lucky punch stab earlier that night. It had barely pierced his armour, more of a pin-prick, really. But he was so tired. This time of year was very trying. Crime ramped up. More lootings and muggings. Domestic disturbances. There’s no Christmas magic in Hell’s Kitchen.</p><hr/><p>He staggered into his bedroom and took a deep breath. It was <em>his,</em> it was <em>home.</em> His own, sleepy scent wafted off the mattress as he eased himself onto it. He knew he had to remove his suit and get into a pair of pyjamas but he was just so—</p><p>“Tired, Mr. Murdock?”</p><p>Matt sat bolt upright. He tensed, tried to figure out where the voice was coming from.</p><p>“You work very hard, don’t you? You’re such a good boy.”</p><p>He leapt off the bed, hefting his club in his hand. “Where are you?” he growled. “Show yourself.”</p><p>“Bit difficult to show myself to a blind man. Oh, but that’s right? <em> Daredevil </em> can see, can’t he? Such a liar. You hide your true self away, Matthew. It’s a troubling sight.”</p><p>“Face me!” he yelled. “Where you are? Come out and face me like a man!”</p><p>No heartbeat. Where the fuck were they?</p><p>But then, he heard thumping, heavy footsteps and a figure loomed up, wide and bulky.</p><p>“Here I am, Matthew. Not gonna give me a hug?”</p><p>He lashed out with his club and his fists but he connected with nothin. There was nothing. Just a rancid smell, somewhere between the stench of rotten meat and stale, unwashed clothes. It prickled his nostrils, made him retch. He reared back, curled his arm protectively around his injured body.</p><p>“You’re an angry little boy. I don’t like that.”</p><p>“Who are you? WHO ARE YOU?”</p><p>“I go by many names. But then, so do you. Daredevil, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, the masked man. Some call me<em> Father Christmas </em> or <em> Saint Nick. </em> In France, they call me Père Noël. In Japan, I’m <em> Hoeiosho. </em> Every country and culture has a name for me. But you can call me Santa.”</p><p>“I’m not in the mood for games,” he snarled. “It’s Christmas Eve. What are you here for? To rob me? To kill me?”</p><p>“Oh, no, Matthew. I’m here to give you a present.”</p><p>He stayed frozen, as the man approached. There it was, yet again. That stinking smell of old meat, and the clumping footsteps of booted feet on his floor. His body told him to run or hide, get away from this abomination, but he remained standing, his hands curled into fists at his side. Against his instincts, he drew in a breath and concentrated on gathering the sensory data.</p><p>Male. Tall. Broad — fat not muscle. Heavy, woollen clothes. Thick boots. Damp shoelaces. And he’s cold. So cold. No flares of body heat, no heartbeat.</p><p>The figure was wearing a long coat and pants. A belt buckled tightly around his mid-section. And a hat edged with fur. It rustled as if there was something inside it.</p><p>“I’ve kept watch over you, all these years. I love all my boys and girls but I always knew you were special. Such a shame about Jack. But look at you now! Saving lives. Making me proud. That deserves a fine gift, my boy. And I know what you truly long for.”</p><p>It came out of nowhere. A hand on Matt’s face. It curved around his cheekbone. A cool meaty palm and thick sausage fingers. He shivered, he wanted to rip the thing off. He felt as though this creature emitted some foul poison that could seep through his pores to poison his very being.</p><p>“Tell me about Foggy,” the man said and Matt clamped his teeth around a whimper.</p><p>“Not a talker? That’s okay. I can see you, you know. Inside your head. Every filthy little desire. Let me take a closer look.”</p><p>Mercifully, his hand left Matt’s cheek. His skin tingled with gooseflesh.</p><p>But the man was raising his hand to his own head and lifting up his hat. A sour smell filtered out, like stale popcorn or mouldy laundry. And something rose. Something sinewy and long, like a cobra uncoiling, rising up to scent the air. It was moist, made wet, gurgling sounds as it unfurled. And he heard the unmistakable wet, slick sound of an eyeball blinking.</p><p>He gagged. It was huge. Whatever, whatever it was. The probing eye. He felt pinned in place, like a bug under a microscope. Uncomfortably seen. He was seen. He’d never been seen like this before.</p><p>“Yes, there you are. Getting a good look at you now. Hmm. Dark thoughts. I thought you were a good boy but your head — your mind is a frightening place. That boy. The fat one. Yes, I remember Franklin Nelson. Oh, but you’re close, aren’t you? You want him. You want to stick your fingers into every rippling fold of flesh, don’t you? Empty yourself into his sopping grotto? How many nights have you spent, lying alone on those silken sheets? Running your hands up and down that tired, scarred body of yours, wishing they were his fat paws? You’d consume him, Matthew. I think you’d eat him if he’d only let you. You’re so alone, poor boy. But I can help you.”</p><p>“Don’t,” he whispered. Dimly, he realised he was crying. Hot tears slid down his cheeks. Sluggish like blood dripping from a wound.</p><p>“Got something for you,” Santa mumbled and he dragged something across the floor, something heavy and rough, a vast bundle of fabric that shivered on the boards. “Come here,”</p><p>“Open it,” Santa murmured and his voice bled into Matt’s ears, picking his brain, jostling it in his skull. He dreamily walked forward and dropped to his knees beside the sack. Clawed at the drawstring with chilled fingers. Tore it open and reached into itsgaping mouth. His gloved fingers touched something that moved. He gasped. But Santa was there, a steady hand on Matt’s back.</p><p>“Go on. You’re <em> so close.” </em></p><p>He let his fingers catch hold of it, and it was flesh, but it was good. Beautifully hot, quivering flesh and it smelt like—</p><p><em> “Foggy,”  </em>he breathed.</p><p>“That’s right. He’s all bundled up for you. Do you like your present? Reach out and take him, he’s yours.”</p><p>He pulled him from the sack and Foggy <em> let </em> him, Foggy <em> welcomed </em> him. Foggy wanted out of the sack! Foggy, all bound up with string. Foggy, crying and shaking. Foggy, clinging to Matt. Crying through his gag. With ribbons cutting into his wrists and his neck. Matt stroked his back and said soft things to him.</p><p>He liked his present. He really did.</p>
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